ed ass! It was as unfair as
poison--an insult to the only precepts I have ever genuinely felt proud
of: the code of playing fair. Before I could pretend to have been making
a silly joke she brushed away my contrition by asking:

"Why Bronx? What does that mean?"

Glory be! I had forgotten that she could not know my name! But now I had
to deny myself, cast my birthright to the winds, or else let her see
that I was a miserable cad who could not be trusted as protector to a
girl thrown upon his care.

And, on the other hand, it was decidedly repulsive to tell a
lie--especially to her who seemed by her magnetic gaze to challenge the
truth right out of a fellow. But conscience is, after all, only a name
for our hidden prosecutor, judge and jury, and our sentences are light
or heavy depending upon how many witnesses we can persuade to perjure
themselves. No man lives who has not at some time used bribery in the
mythical court room of his heart. Among women, of course, it is the
accepted mode of legal procedure; and this gave me hope to believe that
she might be somewhat forgiving when she found me out.

"Why Bronx?" she was asking again.

"Oh," I laughed, "it's a usual name in my part of the country, that's
all--like Smith, and Jones."

I thought this would satisfy, but it gave her another thought, instead.

"Your name isn't Jackachobee, of course?"

"As far as Jack, yes. Every one calls me Jack."

A little while before this my cigarette case had fallen, to the ground
by us. She had picked it up, and was even now turning it idly between
her fingers.

"I see it here," she said, looking more closely at the monogram. "'J.
B.' What does the B stand for, Mr.--Mr. Jack?"

"Brown," I answered desperately, and could feel every ancestor of a long
and honorable line of Bronxes turning over in their graves. For I detest
Brown. It's a good name, an exceptionally fine and distinguished name,
the name not only of dear relatives but of very good friends. Yet it
just so happened that at this particular moment I detested it--or was it
the lie behind it? So to repair my self-esteem I blurted somewhat
incoherently: "Bangs!"--having known a rather decent chap named Bangs.

"Is it spelled with a hyphen?" she glanced up rather quizzically.
"Brown-Bangs?"

Her mind seemed to have flown lightly beyond me, anticipating the extent
of my confusion, for the smile about her mouth, while enigmatic,
suggested--enticingly suggested--mischief